Heat

Deafness sour on her parting lips. Her eyes the verb. Her ass the adjective. In short lived narratives called touch.

Done.

The barbarians satifsfied. The clock indifferent. As she sauntered between now and if. The future on its toes. Windows everywhere. To glimpse. To imagine. The names of colors we'd so often used. The past on catapults. Without a clear target.

The deafness. The fungus of her fingers. Spreading. In deep infections. Unreachable itches.

The reservoir. Pennies gathered. In a thousand misplaced wishes. Collecting dimensions. Parallel to the moments. Travelling time in thrusts and jabs. Cutting her wrists with the sharp edges of the sheets.

Bored.

Uninterested.

Fingers and toes. Eyes and lips. Clay pots drying in an empty oast. Hardening so long.

Just to make the falling matter.